In the mountains
by Black Tulip
Summary: To say Aaron Hotchner was pissed would be an understatement. The understatement of the century. In fact, he was in such a foul mood it was all he could do to keep from storming out of that bullpen, taking his entire team with him... CASEFIC.
1. Chapter 1

1.

To say Aaron Hotchner was pissed would be an understatement. The understatement of the century. In fact, he was in such a foul mood it was all he could do to keep from storming out of that bullpen—that strange_, _dusty, unbelievablyhotbullpen— taking his entire team with him.

The BAU were never called to an investigation unless invited by the local authorities. That was the rule—they were consultants. But something had evidently gone wrong this time. Because although the paperwork had gone through all the usual channels—someone having sent the file to BAU headquarters and spoken to their liaison over the phone—it soon became painfully clear the local authorities had _not _invited them and wanted them anywhere but here.

It had been barely three hours since their plane landed and already it felt like three years. Hotch could tell he wasn't the only one under strain. The local PD didn't have a subtle bone in their bodies, their reluctance palpable—their attitude hostile and defensive every step of the way. Who the hell had called them in? Certainly not the ruddy, burly, tobacco-spitting Sheriff Sheridan. Hotch was so sick of the man, he would gladly have given up and left them to their own devices… if it weren't for one small problem.

They _needed _the BAU.

South Creedon was a tiny rural town lost in the mountains—hardly more than a bunch of ramshackle huts scattered across the countryside—where poverty ran high and serious crime rates were low. They were badly unequipped to handle a murder investigation. Police headquarters was a dilapidated building made of rotting pine boards, with all of five policemen in it—badly organized and clearly lacking in discipline, probably used to nothing more than breaking up drunken brawls and domestic disputes.

Hotch knew the rest of his team felt the same way he did—mostly by the way they avoided meeting each others' eyes. Each tried to cope their own way—JJ by keeping a polite, friendly front and making an attempt at empathy; Morgan with a stiff jaw, doing his best to round up facts despite Sheriff Sheridan's open antagonism; Reid prattling off statistics as he tacked up a huge map of the area for the geographical analysis; Emily, poker-faced and silent, gathering addresses in order to get started on victimology; Rossi keeping a quiet watch over everything, wheels turning in his head as his experience endeavored to build a profile.

Three young women had been abducted and murdered along the peaceful, sun-blasted country roads. All between the ages of 20 and 23, dishwater blonde, freckled, slightly overweight, and on their way to work. All found in corn fields miles away from where they were supposed to be—with very obvious signs of violence and no indication whatsoever of sexual assault. Everything _screamed _sexually-motivated murder. The unsub had a definite type and a pretty constant MO. But the violence… the violence was physical, random and brutal—all fists, no stabbing, no mutilation, no strangling, no torn clothes, no posing of the body. It lacked the sexual component—the profile didn't add up.

Prentiss came into the room carrying the victims' information and Officer Yarmouth leered at her. Hotch glanced away in distaste. That was the worst of this redneck town. Resistance and suspicion they could take—they dealt with them on a day-to-day basis—but this blatant disregard for his female agents made him almost want to resort to physical violence. He realized they weren't high on gender equality around here, where teen pregnancy, alcoholism and spousal abuse ruled—but it still rankled to see them treating Prentiss and JJ as if they were juicy pieces of meat they couldn't wait to sink their teeth into. It wasn't that they couldn't take it—of course they could. But why the hell should they? Why should anyone? It made Hotch's fists tingle just thinking about it.

He knew, however, protectiveness from them was the last thing Prentiss and JJ needed. It would only reinforce the image that they were worthless, inferior—unable to stand up for themselves and needing help from the alpha males. And they couldn't have that. Prentiss and JJ were every bit as competent as any of the others—they were critical to the investigation. Whatever happened, they could not let personal feelings interfere with the case. They _had _to keep up the objective act. For the victims, if nothing else.

Irritation made Hotch curt. "Yes, Prentiss—what is it?"

Her slight start wasn't lost on him—but it passed quickly as she blitzed into professional mode. The daughter of an ambassador, she was long trained in covering up unwanted emotions. "I've got addresses for all three victims. Unfortunately none of the families have a phone—they all live way out into the country. Megan Sarkoff was 20, still in high school, single, living with her parents. She was on her way to a summer job in the fields when it happened. Callie Tanner was 22, single mother of a four-year-old boy. She worked full-time as cashier at the general store in town. Elizabeth Culver was 23, married, mother of three. She was the last victim, at least as far as we know. Worked washing dishes at the diner. Her husband reported her missing when she didn't come home from work two nights ago. She was found the next morning, three miles away."

Reid was suddenly at her side, all ears. "Did they take the same road to work?"

"No. They didn't live nearby, and though both Callie and Elizabeth worked in town, they had to take different routes to get there." She paused to give Reid the addresses so he could mark them on the map. The three points looked lost—meaningless. Hotch knew there was significance to them and they would find it somehow. But right now it all seemed doomed to randomness.

He looked up to find Sheriff Sheridan staring down Emily's shirt. The man was practically drooling. Hotch's head ached from the effort it took to remain impassive. "Did you have any suspects for the first two murders?"

"If we did, you wouldn't be here, now would ya." The sheriff smirked. "We thought Matt Culver mighta had somethin' to do with Lizzie May disappearin'. He's a mean drunk sometimes. Hadta go over to his house three times last month to break 'em up."

"Then that's where we should get started. Prentiss, you and Morgan head over to the Culver house and see what you can find out. Dave, you and Reid go to the Tanner place. I'll go with the Sheriff to see the Sarkoffs. JJ, see if there's any sort of media around here we can alert and wait for Garcia to get back to us with the backgrounds."

As everyone nodded and dispersed, a fleeting expression of dismay crossed JJ's face. It was only there for a second, barely enough to register. But Hotch caught it and knew what it meant. He was leaving her _here_, alone—throwing her to the wolves, while everyone else paired off. He didn't for one minute believe the local PD would actually hurt her—their crudeness was mostly just bravado to scare them off their turf. Still, if _he _couldn't wait to get the hell out of there…

"On second thought… Reid, stay here and work the geographical profile. There's gotta be someway to narrow this down. Morgan, you go with Sheriff Sheridan to take a look at the last crime scene. Try to figure out if the UnSub took any souvenirs."

He didn't wait around to see the grateful relief on her face. There would be time enough to unwind later, after they´d caught the guy—hopefully over a drink or two. _Or six, _he thought wryly, intercepting Morgan's withering glance at the two deputies checking out JJ's pantyhosed legs.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

The Culver house was something else.

Emily had expected light construction—probably in the form of dilapidated log cabin, half torn down. Which it was. What she hadn't expected was the terrible mess it was in—trash and junk lying all over the place, complete with half-passed-out husband, disheveled runny-nosed kids and a twanging radio in the background. It felt like something out of the Beverly Hillbillies.

It was the girl who came to the door at their impatient knocking—a tiny creature no more than six years old, with stringy blonde hair, grimy cheeks and a pained expression. "Who are you?"

"I'm Emily and this is Dave," Emily began, her heart going out to the little runt. "What's your name?"

"Cissy Culver." Somehow it didn't come as a surprise that she hadn't been told not to talk to strangers. In this one horse town Emily guessed everyone knew everyone else… and this didn't seem like the most protective, sheltering of households anyway. "You here to see my Pa?"

Emily glanced beyond her at the arm hanging out of a beat-up green armchair and the beer cans strewn on the floor. _Fat chance we're getting anything out of him._

"Yeah. Can we come in?"

Patiently the child threw the door open, revealing a room that was even worse than Emily had imagined. She had to watch her step to avoid running into toys, clothes and all sorts of unrecognizable articles lying around. Dave followed silently—taking in everything and undoubtedly coming to the same conclusion.

A little boy and an even smaller girl were sitting on the floor of the den, sniffling and looking dirty and miserable. Matt Culver was spread out on the chair, clearly drunk—eyes half-closed and snoring.

Dave stepped up. "Mr. Culver. Mr. Culver—wake up. We need to talk to you."

It took a while but finally Matt Culver came to with a snort, accidentally kicking the cans at his feet and Emily's shins in the process. _Sonova…_

"The hell d'you want?" he grumbled, stumbling to his feet so violently, he swayed sideways and would have fallen if Rossi hadn't caught him. "Get th' fuck outta my house!"

"FBI," Dave interposed calmly. "We need to talk to you about your wife, Elizabeth Culver."

"The bitch is dead, 'nuff said," Matt Culver huffed. Then, unexpectedly, he sank back into the chair and his shoulders shook with sobs. "She's dead! She's dead! My Lizzie May's dead."

_Oh great, _Emily thought, rolling her eyes. _Now we're gonna have to pat him on the back and tell him it'll be okay._

Luckily Dave had chosen to ignore this outburst. She guessed even _his _sympathetic tolerance had a limit. "Mr. Culver, when was the last time you saw your wife?"

The creep wiped his nose on his sleeve. "She was walkin' over to that damn job of hers. In town. Waitin' tables like some cheap slut. I didn't want her there—but them kids hafta eat—and I been hitting a rough patch—"

_Yeah, right. _Emily shook the urge to smack him over the head. "What _time _was it, Mr. Culver?"

For the first time it seemed to dawn on him she was in the room. "I ain't talkin' to you!" he spat. "Lizzie May was fine, just a fine, fine girl—before them kids came along and messed up everything…"

Patiently, Dave insisted, "When did you last see your wife, Mr. Culver?"

"Thursdee," he finally answered. "Thursdee mornin'—ten maybe. Takes her an hour to walk into town. An hour to walk back at night after closin'. She never came back. Never came back."

In the background, the youngest girl began to cry.

"Shut up!" Matt Culver howled, looking like he was about to lose it. His eyes roved around in his head—wild and angry. "Shut that kid up 'fore I make her!"

"She's hungry," Emily broke in, knowing it was unwise but unable to stand by and watch this anymore. "She needs to eat. How long has it been since these kids got a meal?"

Dave glanced at her warningly, but it was too late. In a second Matt Culver was up and flailing his fists at her—if he hadn't been so smashed, Emily doubted she would have avoided a pummeling. As it was, she got away with a shove. "None of your damn business you b—!"

"Come on, kids," she said, turning around and shutting her mind against the scene unfolding behind her. That onslaught had been just a little too close for comfort. "I'll get you something to eat."

It wasn't like she was going to get anything out of this raging maniac anyway. Dave would probably be able to handle him better. She shepherded the children into their rental, wishing she kept candy lying around for emergencies. It had been four days since Elizabeth's disappearance and she was pretty sure the kids hadn't had a decent meal or a bath since. The discovery of a squashed bag of potato chips in the glove compartment gave her hope, and she was just in the process of tearing it open when she heard the gun go off.

_Oh, shit._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:**

**First and foremost I wanted to apologize for blurting out the first chapter of this story without so much as a greeting. It's been a while since I wrote fanfiction, and I'm sorta rusty—I'd forgotten about notes and disclaimers and stuff. So… to make amends:**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds**.

**Secondly, I'd like to wholeheartedly thank my 3 reviewers and the people who added this story to their alerts. It meant a lot! While it's true you do mostly write for yourself, it's really encouraging to know people are reading (and hopefully liking it).**

**Thirdly, I have to admit that yes—I AM a slow updater. I couldn't possibly manage a chapter a day, the way some wonderful people do. But I'll do my best never to let it be this long again. Mind you, there were extenuating circumstances: work takes up 100% of my time on weekdays, I had to go out of town one weekend, and the next weekend we had a mind-blowing earthquake, so… **

**I'll do better next time. Promise.**

* * *

2.

As Emily sprinted back to the house, heart in her throat, a mantra repeated itself over and over in her mind, _please let Rossi be okay, please let Rossi be okay, please let him be okay. _She wasn't sure she could take it if he'd been hurt because she'd left him—because they'd split up. Something you were _never _supposed to do. And all on account of some poor hungry kids…

She walked in on him snapping a pair of cuffs around Matt Culver's wrists. "Wha—?"

Rossi gazed at her mildly, one eyebrow slightly suspended. "He had his shotgun under the chair. Should have expected that—it went off when he grabbed at it. The slug went into the wall. No harm done."

"Oh." Almost giddy with relief, Emily was forced to grab the back of the nearest chair for support. It was mucky, and brought her back to her senses almost at once. Dave was marching the now meek and compliant Matt Culver out to the car—with the three tots, it would be a tight fit. "Wait, how are we—"

She was staring at an empty road. The car she had been sitting in not two minutes before was gone, tire marks on a dusty lane the only reminders it ever existed.

Dave's bewildered look matched her own, but she had no explanation for it. Only their arrestee had presence of mind enough to rumble out drunkenly, "Th' damn hell didcha do with m'kids?"

* * *

Morgan wanted out of this case. He couldn't remember ever wanting anything so bad in his life—except maybe to wring Carl Buford's neck. Which was weird, since there was no comparison whatsoever between offenses. Carl Buford had molested him, when he was young and vulnerable. All _this _guy had done was ogle his teammates and be an overall dick. Even so, there were a zillion places he'd rather be than in this god forsaken field under the smoldering sun, with this poor excuse of a sheriff spitting tobacco juice at his feet.

_Get a hold of yourself, man_. After all, it wasn't like he'd never had to put up with winning personalities like good ol' Sheridan here. Assholes like this were a dime a dozen—bigoted, chauvinistic pigs with the brain of a peanut. He had trained himself to dissociate, channeling his anger into a cool, detached sort of determination that actually helped him concentrate on the case. Sometimes it was even sort of funny—how petty and ignorant people could be. But this guy…

This guy was something else.

_Focus, man._

"This where we found 'er," the sheriff was drawling. "Spread-eagled on the ground like a puppet. All clothes in place but bloody and dirty—like she'd been dragged around some."

"Blood trail?"

"Weirdly 'nuff, no. Just some bent grasses. Footprints in the mud. Stormed overnight."

Stormed overnight. That meant the footprints had come _after_ the storm. So she'd been dumped in the early morning hours. According to the visiting medical examiner, Elizabeth had been dead about twelve hours when they found her. Her body had been discovered at about ten in the morning. She'd been missing since ten the morning before. And been killed at ten at night? So… where had she been during the remaining twelve hours? What was the UnSub doing with her all that time?

"Visiting ME said no sexual assault?" Morgan asked. He knew the answer—JJ had briefed them thoroughly before arrival. He just wanted to make sure.

Sheridan shook his head. "Same as th'others. Internal bleedin' from blunt force trauma—prob'ly fists. No scratchin', no bitin', no hair pullin'."

"Defensive wounds?"

"Plenty. Tissue under the fingernails. Sent it to Marietta for testin'."

"We should get it to Garcia right away." Morgan whipped the cell out of his pocket and had already pressed speed dial when Sheridan practically knocked it out of his hands. "Hey—what the hell?"

Apparently Sheridan had played nice guy long enough. For all the world he looked like a raging bull with his puny eyes, red facing and flaring nostrils. "I don't think we need to be sendin' anyone anythin'," he spat. "Folks at Marietta can handle it just fine."

"Chances are, Marietta's backed up," Morgan insisted—counting to ten in his mind and holding his peace for the victims' sake. "Garcia, our tech, is exclusively dedicated to this case—and she's great, man. She'll make a match before anyone else can."

"I said no. We don't need no damn chicano broad lookin' over our files."

Murderous steam rose to Morgan's head. Being an incompetent stubborn jerk was one thing, but dissing his _baby girl?_ Who wasn't even here to defend herself?That was just the last straw. "She's not chicano and she's not a broad—she's a woman, and the smartest, most resourceful analyst you could ever hope to find. But, look—if you don't wanna solve your crimes that's fine with me. We'll just leave that DNA rotting at Marietta. Till they have time to get to it."

He rushed off toward the SUV, with the full intention of heading back to headquarters and convincing Hotch to give the locals what they wanted and get the hell out of here. Nothing was worth this—they'd come to help, not to be sneered at and insulted. Why'd they even send the file to Quantico to begin with? They obviously assumed they could handle it themselves and screw anyone else's opinion.

Something went _crunch _under his foot and he glanced down just as his cell phone rang. "Yeah, Emily—what's up?"

She sounded strangely subdued over the line. "Hey—can you come pick us up?"

"Why? What happened? Where you at?"

"At the Culver place." The short silence that followed somehow managed to make Morgan more apprehensive. "We appear to have been carjacked."

"What do you mean 'appear to be'?"

"I mean the car's gone, with three kids under seven in it—and we've got their father in custody."

_Shit. _Their big bad murder case had just turned into an amber alert. No way they could leave it now. He wondered how the community would react to the kidnapping—especially to it having taken place inside an FBI vehicle. Things were about to get uglier.

"Okay—I'll be right there."

Whatever he'd shattered had jammed itself pretty effectively into his boot—he couldn't move. As he bent down to remove it, the full realization of what it was hit him and his heart sank.

More bad news.


	3. Chapter 3

**Once again I would like to thank my reviewers, especially Clonksholic, who aside from giving a well-rounded review, had kind words of support concerning real life. In your honor I tried to make this chapter longer, but didn't quite succeed--it depends on the mood, I guess. Maybe next time. The earth keeps shaking beneath my feet and it's distracting... to say the least.**

**A few things I forgot to mention last time...**

**Timeline: Sometime during season 4. Spoilers up to that point anyway, mostly because I'm only a few episodes into season 5, and because I can't really write around the whole Hotch/Foyet ordeal--it's too big, it would claim the story for its own. So in my universe, it hasn't happened yet.**

**Pairings: I can't promise anything yet, but probably no pairings. I'll do my best to stay in character.**

**Disclaimers: I don't own Criminal Minds (obviously). Also... there's no such town as South Creedon as far as I know, and though I'm pretty sure US residents know what area I'm referring to, I'm hoping to keep this vague enough so no one feels insulted by it. I'm not in any way implying ALL small country towns are bigoted and redneck-ish. That's just an artistic license I'm taking for THIS particular place and this particular story. Because it's fun, and it gives me a chance to explore gender issues in the workplace.**

**That being said, on with the show.**

* * *

3.

"What beckons thee, my pretties?" crooned Penelope, from the depths of her cozy, fuzzy, overdecked work environment.

But her good mood dissipated almost at once. JJ's face was visible for the merest second before she turned away, just enough to see the Duck Stance was on—full blown. Something _had _to be wrong. "Out with it, JJ:"

She wasn't completely terrified yet. Thankfully the Duck Stance signaled only minor inconveniences. It wasn't something that sprang up under catastrophic circumstances—like someone getting injured, kidnapped, or—God forbid—killed. JJ's catastrophe face was direly different, and didn't resemble a duck at all. It was frantic and haunted and driven all at the same time. So chances were, whatever the problem was, it wasn't of the life-threatening kind.

Didn't mean she shouldn't address it, though.

"JJ…"

She held up a finger—no, not _that _finger—she was on the phone. Reid, hovering in the background, instantly took over the conversation, spouting out coordinates and asking for criminal records on the townspeople, satellite pictures of the crime scenes and so forth and so on. His soliloquy eventually became so long-winded and hyper she could hardly keep up with it, and was more than relieved when JJ finally hung up and turned back to the screen, Duck Stance still firmly in place.

"Spit it out, Jayje," she lovingly commanded.

"Morgan found another body." Penelope knew JJ always took it hard when there were more victims than initially anticipated, but this level of dejection was excessive even for her. It reminded her more of when she'd found out she was pregnant with Henry—like the dilemma, whatever it was, was personal.

"Older or newer?"

"Older—skeletal remains." Insert sigh. "Garcia, we're gonna have to call in FBI forensic experts. Local police don't have CSU."

_So _that_ was it?_

"I know—not too computer savvy either. I hardly got anything on the people living there, except for criminal records, driver's licenses, birth certificates and a whole bunch of nothing stuff like that. Bet the police files are all ratty brown construction paper folders."

"You guess right," JJ ironized, and Penelope was soothed. If her girl was chipper enough to be sarcastic, whatever was going on couldn't be that bad.

Still… there was definitely _some_thing. "What else? Hit me."

"I need you to put a BOLO out on a car. Dave and Emily got carjacked."

"What?" Blood rushed to Penelope's chest, making it momentarily hard to breathe—her voice rose an octave. "Are they okay?"

"They're fine. Morgan's picking them up now. But there were three kids in that car—two girls and a boy. So now we've got a serial killer _and _a kidnapping."

She sounded so worn out, poor baby. Of course it had to be draining, having no leads and now a new crime on their hands, with the prospect of a furious Hotch in the near future, when probably all she had longed for when she left that morning, was to get home in time to give baby Henry his bottle and tuck him in.

If there were time, she would have coerced JJ into spilling her guts and maybe even indulging in a good refreshing cry on her virtual shoulder. But there was no time. Two of their teammates were stranded, a car had been stolen, and three tiny innocents were missing.

"Consider it done, _chèrie. _Garcia out."

* * *

Rossi finally relented to setting Matt Culver down by the side of the road. His arms were sore from the effort of keeping him upright. It was one thing to walk a drunken man a couple of yards to a car, and quite another to prop him up indefinitely while you waited for someone else to come get you. Culver looked so harmless sitting there, head bowed, that he felt tempted to join him. But he wasn't about to let his guard down. They'd already been duped once. There was no way he was letting it occur again. Stranger things had happened.

_Stranger things _have _happened. _Like the car vanishing from under their very noses, without them hearing or seeing a thing.

Emily had run on ahead, following the tire tracks to see if she could make sense of it. They'd discovered a set of footprints—adult size, work boots, probably male—leading up to the car from the fields beyond. So obviously the children hadn't abducted themselves. The keys were still in his pocket too, which meant the person who had taken the car either had keys of his own—not likely, considering it was a rental, and from the next town—or had managed to short circuit the ignition in record time.

He was mostly afraid for the kids. Though his gut told him he shouldn't be—that this little stunt was probably more of a diversion than an actual kidnapping. The joyrider was male, presumably a neighbor—who'd seen what was going down, decided his buddy was in trouble and felt it his duty to sabotage the feds. He'd probably dump the car somewhere nearby, and the kids would turn up fed, bathed, and clothed at some concerned citizen's house.

It was a plausible scenario. But no matter what his gut surmised, they were forced to run this like any other kidnapping—giving it top priority, even over the murders. Which was probably what the carjacker wanted, whether he realized it or not. The murder victims were already dead—nothing would bring them back to life. But the kids were alive and had to be returned safely. They were all familiar with the statistics—75% of abducted children were killed within the first three hours. As the three tear-streaked, wretched little faces crossed his mind—reminding his of another case long past—he knew he couldn't bear to have anything happen to them.

"Anyone around here know how to bypass ignition?" he asked, mostly for conversational purposes. He doubted Culver would be sober enough to give a sensible response.

Culver snorted. "Who don't? Ain't hardly any of us got keys around here."

Maybe he wasn't so plastered after all.

"Who are your neighbors, Mr. Culver?"

He was tight-lipped about it at first, but a gentle prod from Rossi's foot got him going. "Bob Lawton down yonder, 'bout half-mile," he mumbled. "Cletus Tate 'bout three miles thataway."

The rumble of an engine in the distance put an end to their tête-à-tête. Rossi hauled an unwilling Culver to his feet just as Emily hobbled into view, flushed and covered in dust. "Find anything?"

"Tell you in the car," she wheezed.

* * *

Reid was ecstatic to finally be at an actual crime scene. For some reason, Hotch had insisted on keeping him indoors lately, working on victimology, geographical profiles and other deskbound occupations. Deep down he knew it was a good call—he kept more facts stored away in his brain than most encyclopedias, and could probably find links and build a sketch of the victim faster than anyone. But it _did _make him feel a bit like a fraud. What was the use of being a full-fledged, firearm-certified agent if he was never in the field? Not that he was particularly fond of raids and stakeouts and shootings—but it was welcome change to step out of Headquarters every once in a while.

And now, just as he'd resigned himself to an afternoon of map-coloring while JJ patiently babysat him, Hotch stopped by and demanded his presence at a crime scene.

His mind swam with ideas. There was no real reason to believe this new body of Morgan's had anything to do with the other homicides. That was mere speculation. They'd have to wait for the coroner to go over it, of course—but aside from being physically near the other dump site, there might be no other similarities.

His opinion began to change the minute the corpse was exposed.

It seemed older, true—stripped of nearly all soft tissue. He knew, however, a cadaver exposed to forensic fauna and the elements could be reduced to skeletal remains in less than a week. And the other women, Megan Sarkoff, Callie Tanner, and Elizabeth Culver, had been murdered a month apart. This could very well be another victim.

And it was female. The long, sandy-colored strands on her skull gave her away—along with what was left of her clothes and the rounded pelvic bone. The medical examiner confirmed it.

Sheriff Sheridan looked decidedly shaken as he gazed down at the makeshift grave—almost as if it made him physically ill. For once there wasn't a trace of defiance in his demeanor.

"We can't be one hundred percent sure she belongs to the same UnSub," burst Reid, anxious to help. "She has similar physical characteristics to the other three, but age and time of death have still to be verified, and that could change everything. Besides, there are no obvious signs of violence and she was buried, not dumped, which constitutes a significant change of MO. It's similar to a 2003 case in Texas, where the whole investigative force was led astray by a corpse found within the UnSub's comfort zone, but actually turned out to be the work of _another_—"

"You don't understand," Sheridan broke in. "We ain't _got _anymore missin' persons. I know everyone in this whole damn town. This lady—I got no idea who she could be."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note:**

**So sorry for the horrifying delay. I deployed to a place without internet and was half cut off from the world for a while there. I mean to make amends to my readers, if they're still around. I sure hope so. Thanks for reading.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds.**

* * *

**4.**

JJ felt like crying with pent-up rage and frustration. She was seriously uncomfortable. And hungry. And lonely. And she felt so utterly _useless. _Reid had left nearly an hour before with Hotch to go God knew where and for some reason Morgan & co weren't back yet, so there wasn't a single person to share her aggravation with. Garcia hadn't called back, which meant she had no new info, and JJ really didn't want to push her. The sooner this case was wrapped up, the better—and not only for the victims' sake. Home was looking more and more attractive by the minute.

Actually she would settle for getting out of the precinct. The place was driving her nuts. Not only was it unbearably muggy, but she'd had to put up with contempt and veiled intimidation all day. Normally it was one of the things she was good at—the kind word, the smile, never folding under pressure. She was the self-proclaimed pacifist of the team, priding herself on her ability to hold back grudges and smooth over conflict when none of the rest could.

Too bad her talents seemed to have taken a hike just now, when she most needed them. Maybe they were incompatible with this level of physical discomfort. Or maybe she just wasn't as good as she'd thought. Truth was, she was nearing the end of her rope. Not only was she starving, having had absolutely nothing to eat since breakfast—not so much as a measly cup of coffee—but she couldn't even use the restroom without some smartass barging in. The local police clearly felt no need for a ladies' room, being an all-male affair—and apparently privacy wasn't a luxury an outsider like her was entitled to. Yeah, because watching people taking a leak was such a treat.

To make matters worse, she hadn't been able to feed Henry before leaving and her lactating breasts felt heavy enough to explode. If only Emily were here, she would've stood guard by the bathroom door while she pumped, giving her a moment's solitude at least. Forget Emily—even Reid would have been enough. But he was gone. They were all gone. There was no one even to leave in charge in case Garcia called. She was alone.

_Oh, toughen up, Jareau, _she disgustedly shook herself. _What the hell is wrong with you? Buck up!_

She bet the locals would be thrilled to see "the lil woman" dissolve into tears. They'd probably think it was just like a girl—their own personal little victory.

The laptop beeped back to life just then, corroborating Morgan's tenet—that Garcia _was _their God-given solace.

"Nothing on the car yet," her voice rang out, tinny through the speakers. "But check it out—you know those neighbors you told me to look into? Robert Lawton's got a record—grand theft auto, no less. Of course it's from like two decades ago, but it's like riding a bike, right? You never lose the knack for it. And Cletus Tate—he's got a wife and kids of his own. If Rossi's assessment is right, that's probably where you'll find the Culver kids. Also… Reid sent me pictures of their Jane Doe to match up against missing person reports." Her tone became uncertain. "It's gonna be hard—I mean, she's nothing but bones and hair. And there's like a zillion blonde women missing in the area. So don't get your hopes up anytime soon."

"I won't."

It came out uncommonly bitter, and JJ was sorry the minute it was out of her mouth. Predictably enough, Garcia pounced on it. "Now you listen, girlfriend—I've been patient long enough. Either you tell me what's bothering you, or I'm outta here."

Faces were perking up curiously all around her. JJ would die rather than disclose how flustered she was. It was exactly what they wanted—they had no right. "_Nothing_'swrong," she insisted, a healthy spark of anger igniting within her. _About time you showed up, spunk. _"Absolutely nothing. I just forgot a few things for a while, but they just came back to me. There's something I gotta do. I'll get back to you, Garcia."

She was so ravenous and desperately top-heavy she could barely drag herself from the chair. But she didn't care. Enough was _enough. _No more miss nice liaison.

"And where do you think _you're _going?" one of the officers demanded, hairy arms crossed, jaw jutting out.

"Where I should've gone an hour ago," she retorted icily. "To lunch. And you, officer Crowe, are taking my place in front of that computer. I'm holding you personally responsible if any information gets lost or misplaced. So go ahead and make yourself comfortable."

The bug-eyed look on the brute's face was priceless. He probably hadn't had a woman stand up to him a day in his life. She pitied the poor waif who had the misfortune of calling herself his wife.

Fun as it was, she had no intention of sticking around for the comeback. There were more important matters at hand—such as nourishment. Lighthearted in her achievement and filled with a wholesome amount of rage, she practically skipped down the front steps… only to run smack into some wiry guy hurtling in.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he sputtered before she could say anything, fending her off as if afraid she would jump him. "I didn't mean to. I gotta speak to the FBI. I need to see the FBI _now._"

* * *

When the cell phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, Hotch was almost afraid to answer it. _What now? _

"Hotch." It was Morgan. "I got Rossi and Prentiss. Prentiss has some sort of idea about where the carjacker could have taken those kids. Do you want us to follow up on it?"

"No," groused Hotch irritably. "Take the arrestee straight back to the precinct. Once he's been booked, two of you can take one of the locals and check up on it."

"But, Hotch—"

"No buts." He knew he was being a drill sergeant, but desperate situations called for desperate measures. He couldn't afford any more 'incidents'. "Take the arrestee straight back to the precinct. That's an order."

The fact Morgan didn't say anything before hanging up showed how pissed off he was. But Hotch didn't care. Or, to be more accurate—he cared, but couldn't afford to show it. Who knew what might happen if they started carting a suspect or whatever this man was all over the place. They were already at odds with the locals and the kidnapping had sunk them even lower in their esteem. If a suspect escaped or got hurt while in their care, it would be the last straw.

He couldn't help wondering for the umpteenth time who the hell had called them in. And why this person wasn't backing them up now.

The phone vibrated against his ribs again and he had a brief but wonderful vision of hurling it across the Potomac. _If it's Morgan again, I swear to God…_

It was JJ. Her usually calm voice was tinged with urgency… and some other emotion he couldn't quite pick out. For a split second he remembered he'd taken Reid away—left her alone to hold up the fort—and his conscience pricked him. Sure she was a pro. That didn't mean her nerves couldn't be frayed by the hard time they were probably all giving her.

"Wait, back up. What was that about a witness?"

"There's a man here who says he knows who the killer is," JJ repeated. "He says he'll only talk to the head of the team. That's _you_, Hotch. You need to get over here."

Hotch threw a glance at the newly uncovered crime scene, baking under the relentless sun. The sheriff and one of his deputies had just finished taping off the perimeter. Reid seemed to be holding his own, taking charge of the situation. Surely they could handle squatting at the scene till CSU arrived. He wasn't one to leave his agents working solo, but the locals _were _law enforcement, after all—no matter how incompetent. They'd hardly let harm to Reid while in their company. Plus, Sheriff Sheridan had been much more tractable since the discovery of this last victim.

The drive back to the station took about twenty minutes. Country roads were hell—even on an SUV. By the time he got there, the windshield was streaked with dirt and his backside felt like he'd just taken a ride on a bucking bronco. His neck had a permanent crick on it. _This damn witness better be worth it._

He took the time to keenly observe JJ for signs of distress when she came forward to greet him. Nothing off about her—eyes just a little snappish. She obviously hadn't had an easy time, but she was handling it.

"His name is Benjamin Atkins," she briskly explained as he fell into step with her. "Thirty-two, local—but currently living in another state. He says he's been visiting relatives here for about a week."

"You don't believe him?"

JJ hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "He seemed a little too anxious to speak to the FBI. Very… wired. Edgy."

"High?"

"Maybe."

Great. Just what they needed—a witness on drugs. Although, he reflected dourly—even a witness on drugs was better than no witness at all.

"Here he is," JJ announced, opening the door to the precinct's poor excuse of an interrogation room.

But the introduction died on her lips.

Their witness hung from the ceiling by his belt, legs still quivering in midair.

* * *

"This case is a fucking nightmare," Morgan grumbled after sharing the latest developments, slamming his cell phone down so hard it bounced off Emily's knee. "Sorry."

Emily nonchalantly rubbed it, exchanging a troubled glance with Rossi through the rearview mirror. Everyone was in such a surly frame of mind today—not that she could really blame them. They'd gone from serial murder to kidnapping to suicide all in one day. It wasn't designed to lift anyone's spirits. Even Matt Culver, that insufferable drunk, was staring sullenly out the window, shoulders hunched, as if he carried the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

"This is where the car ran off the road," she broke in suddenly, pointing up ahead. It was as far as she'd managed to get before Morgan picked them up. The dusty tire tracks veered right into the open field, flattening grasses as they went. In the distance, you could see some sort of a house. Lack of time had made it impossible for Emily to reach it before, and she wasn't sure it was wise without back up anyway. Still, it was the most likely place for the children to be, and since the kidnapping was at least partly her fault, she really, _really_ wanted to make it better.

Morgan frowned. "Hotch said to head straight back to the precinct."

"I know, but… we're so close. It's less than a mile. And the kids might be there." Emily hated herself for egging him on that. She knew Morgan was secretly longing to take action, because that was the sort of agent he was. Goading him just added insult to injury—and made it all that much harder to follow instructions. Did she really want to be responsible for him disobeying Hotch's direct orders? Wouldn't that just make things infinitely worse?

It was a split second decision. She knew what _she _wanted, but Morgan was the man at the wheel. Ultimately it was his call. It hardly came as a surprise when he swerved off the road into the meadow.

"Morgan—" Rossi objected.

"We're just gonna look," Morgan scowled. "Nothing else. Two minutes. If we see anything suspicious, we come back with a warrant."

Emily shamelessly glued herself to the window. The wooden structure she'd glimpsed from the road grew closer—it was nothing but a shed after all. An _empty _shed. Disappointment settled bitter and stale at the back of her throat.

"Wait!" Rossi called out suddenly, causing everyone in the car to jump. "Pull over. Over there."

Hidden among the foliage, Emily thought she made out some sort of colorful fabric. Something that could've belonged to what one of the little girls was wearing. Recklessly, she streaked out of the car and ran toward it, Morgan close at her heels.

_Oh, God! Thank you, God!_

There they were, all three of them—safe and sound. Huddled on the ground, looking dirtier and hungrier and more miserable than ever. But unhurt.


	5. Chapter 5

**I was touched almost to the point of tears at the response to my last chapter. Thanks so much for reading! Especially after all this time. Needless to say, I've been bad again. Please bear with me. **

**Hope you like this next chapter.**

**5.**

And the kids were back, safe and sound.

Reid couldn't help but be glad. He hadn't really had much time to dwell on it—being in charge of a crime scene was new to him. But he _did _know they wouldn't have been able to pool their resources toward solving the murders as long as the Amber Alert remained active. Now they'd called it off they might actually be able to advance on the profile. CSU had arrived at last, taken their pictures and collected their evidence—the coroner had driven off with the remains. The suicide at police headquarters had been a setback, but in a way it _did_ serve a purpose. Thanks to it, the FBI had decided to set up an emergency lab right here in South Creedon, instead of driving back and forth between police headquarters and the field office.

Even as he rattled off random facts to whomever would listen, his mind was actively connecting the psychobehavioral dots. The kidnapping, the suicide—they _had _to be a diversion. How could they be anything but? The probability of both happening on the same _day _in a town this small was practically nil. They _had _to be related. Now… whether the same UnSub was responsible for all of them was another matter. An elusive UnSub like this would hardly act the way JJ said Benjamin Atkins did. He _had _to be a scapegoat. Sure profiling was a soft science… compared to Physics or Chemistry. You couldn't be exact about anything regarding human behavior. But he was pretty sure a subject like this wouldn't murder three—maybe four—women, only to pretend to turn himself in and then commit suicide. It made no sense.

His palms itched to get back to the bullpen and discuss the scheme that was forming in his mind. He loved it when they all gathered and tossed ideas around. To him it was as stimulating as a chess tournament. Sometimes more.

People were wrong about profiling, he reflected. They figured it was like chess—choosing the right strategy, beating your adversary. It really wasn't like that at all. It more closely resembled a jigsaw puzzle. You _had _all the pieces—thousands of psychologists, sociologists and criminologists all over the world had come up with them. It was about knowing where each one went. Once you figured that out—you knew who you were dealing with. And _then _you could play chess.

Spencer Reid wasn't a hands-on man. He'd trained to be a field agent—he'd enjoyed being at the crime scene this afternoon. But when Sheriff Sheridan sauntered over and announced it was time to leave, he was more than happy to comply.

Everyone was lounging around the tiny bullpen by the time he got there—the local cops staring at them curiously, as if they were some sort of weird museum display. Hotch especially looked as if he were on the verge of a breakdown. Not a nervous breakdown—more like a homicidal frenzy.

"This UnSub is clearly disorganized," Morgan was selling his theory. "They're rage killings."

"They can't be rage killings if he had the victims for over twelve hours before they were murdered," objected Emily.

"True," conceded Rossi. "A disorganized rage killer might have a type—but the killing would take place right then and there. Impulsively. Not at some secondary crime scene. The abductions are organized—the bludgeonings aren't. Something's setting him off."

Though Reid had an enormous amount of regard for Morgan, his best friend among profilers, he had to admit Rossi's experience beat him everytime. And how could it not? The man had twenty years' headstart and already written _books _before they were even in grade school.

He still felt like a traitor when knowledge compelled him to add, "Plus, a disorganized killer wouldn't have the ability to take forensic countermeasures."

A series of nods conveyed acceptance of his idea, so he went on. "On the other hand, a true organized sociopath wouldn't have the ability to partner up the way this UnSub has."

Hotch flinched visibly. "What makes you think this guy has a partner?"

"The kidnapping—the suicide. They were obviously a decoy. Whoever is behind this is doing their best to distract us—keep us from investigating the actual case. But he can't be everywhere at once."

"True," Emily slowly reflected. "But I don't think they were a _planned _diversion. Unless… unless we're dealing with a group."

Everyone fell silent. Even Reid, never quick to grasp other people's emotions, knew what was going through their minds. They'd already decided the UnSub was local. If they were dealing with a group… basically anyone in town could be part of it. Maybe _every_one. Including law enforcement.

It would certainly explain a lot.

And it meant they weren't safe anywhere.

"Enough for today," Hotch grimly stated. "Everyone get some sleep. We'll regroup in the morning."

* * *

"Ew," shuddered JJ, the minute the motel room's shabby door closed behind them—shutting out the sweaty super and his handsy beer-guzzling friend.

"Pigs," Emily agreed, flopping unceremoniously down on their king-sized bed. A bed with a coin-operated _vibrator. _"This ain't no Ritz either."

In spite of everything, JJ couldn't help grinning. They should have expected this. Tourism was evidently not among South Creedon's list of priorities—their only lodgings being this seedy roadside motel, all 5 roach-infested rooms complete with vibrating bed, closed-circuit TV and ancient minibars that roared to life every 25 to 30 minutes. It was too sleazy to be true—absolutely worthy of taking cellphone pictures and sending them to Will. At least he'd get a kick out of them.

Since two of the five trashy rooms were taken, the six team members had to split into the remaining three. All of which had only _one _bed. JJ snickered again. She would've paid good money to see the venerable Rossi and straight-laced Hotch cuddled up together.

"What are _you _laughing at?" Emily playfully accused. "Either you get yourself into the bathroom or I will—can't wait to wash this day off me. Yuck."

"Go ahead. I'm gonna call Will first." All of a sudden the whole thing was no laughing matter. "Em… you really think we're dealing with multiple UnSubs?"

Emily paused on her way to the bathroom, countenance serious. "It's happened before. Religious sects, the Ku Klux Klan. What I can't figure out is why they'd target these girls. Groups usually take a moral or racist stand. Aside from their looks and ages, these girls don't really have anything in common. We'd have to warn every blonde overweight young woman in the area."

JJ couldn't help the sinking feeling they were in for the long haul. Chasing one UnSub was bad enough. But if the whole town was in on it…

In the end she was too bushed to care. Sleep overtook her even before she finished SMS'ing the pictures.

It was Henry's plaintive wailing that startled her out of sound sleep at some point during the night. Instinctively she reached out for him in the dark, only to run into some unknown bulk, her eyes popping open in alarm.

It took her a while to realize the screaming baby was only in her dreams. The night was dim, airless and silent—the stillness broken only by crickets outside and the shape's mild snoring. Emily—not Will.

Slowly the case came back to her and she groaned inwardly. _Not another day of this. _Her chest constricted as she remembered her son—so chubby and soft and adorable in his light blue crib. Was he lying awake in the dark, too—cooing to himself the way he'd learned to do lately? Had he noticed she was gone? Did he miss her? He was such a mamma's boy. JJ sincerely loved her job, and cared for each and every one of her team members. But traveling with them for days on end was so much harder now that she had someone to come home to.

This particular case didn't contribute toward making her feel any better. If only she could sense they were helping in some way—making progress. But they weren't. The locals rejected them. For all she knew they might all be responsible for the crimes. And it was weird because the person who had called her seemed so genuinely worried and keen on their assistance. What was her name…? She must have it on file somewhere.

The temperature seemed to have dropped a few degrees, making the oppressive motel room much more tolerable. JJ snuggled down, eager to forget the case and its sinister implications. She was just beginning to drift off when she had the freakiest impression of Emily being up, her shadow black and spindly against the window.

The hair rose on the back of her neck.

_That was not Emily's shadow._

* * *

Morgan hadn't been asleep—not really. He was too wound up. Reid, on the other hand, had passed out almost instantly, drooling, as if he'd been hit with a tranquilizer dart. Morgan had to hand it to him—the kid's talents never ceased to amaze him. How he could snooze at a time like this was beyond him.

The second the scream pierced the air, though—they both leapt out of bed as if they'd been shot.

"JJ," muttered Morgan, grabbing his gun and sprinting out the door as he was, in a T-shirt and boxers.

He ran into Hotch and Rossi in the hall, both looking as disheveled and terrified as he felt. Hotch's shirt hung out and his trademark tie was nowhere to be found—which was more than could be said for Rossi's attire. They gathered at Emily and JJ's door, and Rossi started to call out, but a crash from inside brought all peace treaties to an end. Fearing the worst, Morgan kicked the door open and they all tumbled inside, armed to the teeth, ready for anything.

Someone flipped on the shaky overhead light to reveal a distraught JJ, frozen in the middle of the room with her gun pointed at the open window, a smashed bedside lamp at her feet. A dazed Prentiss blinked up at them from the bed.

Morgan was barely able to keep the panic out of his voice as he raced over, taking the firearm from her hand. "JJ! You okay? What happened?"

She seemed slightly out of it, eyes wide, petrified in defensive stance. The only time he could ever recall seeing her like this was years ago, in Tobias Hankel's barn. After Reid had been taken and she'd been mauled by dogs. She wasn't easily rattled.

"JJ, look at me!" he insisted. "You okay? Tell me what happened."

"Someone broke in. There was an intruder in the room."

But there wasn't.

Rossi, Hotch and Reid went over every inch of it—even behind the ratty shower curtains, under the bed and inside the closet. The place was clear. Hotch and Rossi exchanged troubled glances and Morgan didn't know what to think. The circumstances surrounding the case were enough to make anyone jittery—true. Then again, JJ wasn't one to go imagining things, and they'd been through worse.

"I know what I saw," she persisted stubbornly. "I'm not imagining it. He was standing right there, right over Emily. He was so_ close._"

Hotch turned to Prentiss. "Are _you_ okay? Did you see this person?"

"I didn't see anything," Prentiss admitted. "I was asleep. But if JJ says she saw it, I believe her."

The open window, at least, was an undebatable fact. The motel room was small and on the first floor—it would've been easy for anyone to slip out the window in the dark, unseen and unheard in the commotion. JJ and Prentiss looked unusually vulnerable in their sleepwear, barefoot, bleary-eyed and with their hair tumbled. His scalp prickled uncomfortably at the thought of a stranger in the room with them.

Rossi poked his head out the window and then shut it firmly. One glance from him to Hotch and Morgan understood what their fraught faces meant.

It didn't matter whether JJ had made up the intruder or not. They were all exposed and could no longer afford to ignore it. They couldn't let their guard down. Not even for a minute.

"What do we do?" Reid broke the silence. "Do we… call the police?"

"No." Hotch's voice was taut, forbidding. "We can't trust the locals. Go get blankets from the other rooms. From now on, we don't split up anymore. And we don't discuss the case except among ourselves. It's three am. Two of us will stay up and keep watch. The rest of you get some sleep. You'll need it."


End file.
